Eagle Hunt
by Tirathon
Summary: When friends can't do anything more to help, who is left to turn to but an old enemy? ... The fourth chapter is here. But where is Hogan?
1. Prologue

_Insert the usual disclaimers here. I don't own any of these characters except Wilkins and Blair, and I don't particularly mind if either of them follows someone else home. Just be sure to feed them._

**The events in the prologue take place immediately after Episode 33, "Hogan Gives a Birthday Party".**

* * *

Until recently, General Rudolf Biedenbender had never paid particular attention to just how uncomfortable the interior of a modified Heinkel 111 bomber was if you were anywhere other than the cockpit. Rank had its privileges, and even though his promotion had ended his combat flying, nothing could keep him out of at least the right seat. More accurately, very little could. Unfortunately, one of the things which could do so was the unpleasant combination of his hands being tied behind his back with his own silk pilot's scarf and the pistol in the hand of the man at the navigator's station, one Lieutenant Hardy of the US Army Air Force. Instead of sitting at the controls Biedenbender was leaning against the fuselage just forward of the bomb racks, feeling the wind whistling through a gap around the bomb bay doors and being quietly miserable. The vibration was rattling his teeth loose. The metal decking was hard, but he refused to give his captor the satisfaction of seeing him squirm around trying to find a more comfortable position than the one they had left him in. The dull ache in his shoulders, wrenched when Colonel Hogan's men captured him, led him to suspect that there was no such thing as a comfortable position anyway as long as his hands were tied. The noise of the twin Jumo engines was deafening. And last but far from least, he was slowly freezing. 

Worst of all was the knowledge that he had failed. For the first time, he had failed to anticipate Hogan's next move. Hogan had given him a decoy plan, easy to see through -- inviting him to dinner in the prisoners' barracks -- and a more subtle, elaborate one -- something that would require him to remain at Stalag 13 in the company of the insufferable Colonel Klink for an additional day. What Biedenbender had not anticipated was the real plan, the third one, hidden behind the other two. He had studied Hogan, but Hogan had been learning as well. _Rudy, you have lost your edge._ He needed no more proof than his stiff, shivering body, the throbbing of his shoulders, and the whole miserable ride into enemy territory.

"Almost home, Herr General," the man in the navigation seat shouted to him over the roar of the engines. "We'll be wheels-down in about ten minutes."

The American wasn't even gloating. Somehow that bothered the general. Lieutenant Hardy had been nothing but polite to him, if you didn't count keeping a loaded gun trained on him as rudeness. So had Lieutenant Karras, the man now in the cockpit, when the two had traded places for a while. Calm professionalism in the people around him had been in short supply since the day when the Führer himself had personally awarded him the Swords to his Knight's Cross, a promotion, and a desk job. _What has become of the Luftwaffe? What has become of me?_ He felt the steep descent starting and with it, the end of everything that mattered. Flying. Strategy. Freedom.

As if Lieutenant Karras was one of his own pilots, Biedenbender mentally evaluated the American's landing procedures. Flaps too soon. Gear down too late. _Throttle back now, dammit!_ Bounce. Bounce. Biedenbender winced. _What is this amateur doing to my airplane?_ The plane settled down on the runway and became a terrestrial creature once again. _No, not an amateur_, he reminded himself. _A skilled pilot who has never flown an HE 111 before. Could I do better with one of theirs? And it is not mine anymore._ Lieutenant Hardy, the man with the gun, was smiling with relief. _Any landing you can walk away from is a good one._ The plane came to a stop and the engines shut down. Wherever they were going, they had arrived.

"You just sit there and relax, Herr General," Lieutenant Karras said as he came out of the cockpit. "We have to take this kinda slow. There are some rather paranoid people around us right now, and I'd rather not get shot by my own guys because they think I'm a Kraut. So we do things however they want." Karras began peeling off the Luftwaffe flight suit as he spoke.

"And for me, since I actually am a 'Kraut'?" Biedenbender got some measure of satisfaction at seeing Karras wince slightly when he used the term.

"You do the same thing: whatever they want. They know you're on board, so there should be someone out there to meet you."

Hardy passed the pistol to Karras and shed his Luftwaffe flying gear as well while looking out the small window near his position.

"Looks like they're ready for us," he said. "On your feet, Herr General. We don't want to keep our welcoming committee waiting."

Biedenbender tried to stand, but his legs were stiff from the hours of immobility and cold. The dull ache in his shoulders flared to agonizing new life as he lurched forward and added two bruised knees to his collection. He shook off Hardy's assistance, got his legs under him, and stood. A new ache brought itself to his attention, a dull throbbing in the middle of his back. That must have been from the Englander kneeling on him during his capture. A muffled thump from outside indicated rolling stairs being brought up to the plane. It would not be long now. It bothered Biedenbender that his Knight's Cross was hanging askew. _Why does it matter? They will take it from me soon._ He did not consider himself a vain man, but now, facing the ruins of his career, possibly the end of his life, he suddenly disliked the idea of stepping out of the plane with his uniform untidy. Unexpectedly, Hardy recognized his concern.

"Hold still a moment, General," Hardy said. He tugged the wrinkles out of Biedenbender's uniform tunic, dusted off his back, straightened his decorations, and settled his cap squarely on his head. "At least one of us ought to look regulation," he added with a grin. Biedenbender nodded silent thanks.

Lieutenant Karras opened the door and went through it, slowly. "You're next," Hardy said, and Biedenbender, feeling emotionally numb, complied. Hardy brought up the rear. As they went down the stairs and stepped onto the tarmac, the roar of engines came from behind them. Biedenbender snapped his head up to see two Spitfires make a low pass over the airfield and waggle their wings in a flyer's salute before streaking off into the dawn sky.

"Our escort," Hardy explained.

Another vehicle pulled up and A USAAF captain leaped out before it came to a stop.

"Doug! Who'd you steal those captain's bars from?" Karras shouted at the newcomer. "You owe us a round at King's!" In an instant the three grinning American flyers were pounding each other's backs and trading mock insults in a happy reunion. With most of the other Allied personnel in tow they headed off the field. Biedenbender silently watched them go. _Just like my old squadron. A happy homecoming for them._

"General, sir?" a voice spoke quietly but firmly from behind his left shoulder. Biedenbender turned to see two military police behind him, two more with weapons out near a jeep parked a dozen meters away. All four positioned to avoid each other's line of fire. The one who had spoken offered a crisp salute, which Biedenbender acknowledged with a nod.

"I'm Sergeant Blair, this is Corporal Wilkins. We'll be taking care of you, sir."

"Just a polite way to say guarding me," he replied bitterly.

"Yes, sir."

"I am at your orders, Sergeant."_Get this over with._

"If you could please turn around, sir," the MP said. Biedenbender complied. He felt the MP tugging at the scarf tying his hands.

"You'll be a little more comfortable once we get you into proper handcuffs, sir." Blair worked at the knots. "Man, whoever tied this thing sure wanted it to stay tied. Ah, there we go." A final tug and the silk fell away. Biedenbender had a moment to flex his wrists, work some of the kinks out of his shoulders. "Now just let me get these on you, sir."_As if I am going to fight four of them._ The touch of the cold steel on his wrists shattered the last of his hopes and illusions. _Three hours ago I was a decorated Luftwaffe general. Now I am a prisoner of the Allies._ The other one moved in and efficiently frisked Biedenbender, pocketing his identity papers. He endured the search stoically. A bitter taste of humiliation filled his mouth. _This is my life now._

"I wonder whose scarf?" Blair asked Wilkins.

"Mine, Sergeant," Biedenbender said, surprising himself.

Blair shook the scarf and tried to snap out some of the wrinkles. "It's kind of a mess, sir. Do you want to wear it anyway?" The general nodded and bent so the MP could put the scarf in its place.

"Danke."

"Time to go, sir," Blair said, taking Biedenbender's elbow and guiding him toward a waiting jeep. Numbly, the general settled into the passenger seat. As the jeep pulled away and headed for the cluster of Quonset huts and field operations buildings, he took one last look at the Heinkel silhouetted alone against the sky. _Now I am to be the eagle in a cage._


	2. Night Work

_Usual copyright disclaimers apply. The only characters I own in here are Gustav, Josef, and Otto._

_Special thanks to GSJessica for a very thorough and professional beta reading; the remaining flaws are my fault, not hers. Thanks also to the love of my life for suggesting the sardine tins! Note: _« _and _» _indicate German dialog._

**4 months after Colonel Hogan's birthday:**

* * *

The buildings looming out of the darkness might have been anything once, maybe a school, maybe a small factory. They looked as if they had grown like some brick and concrete creature, expanding organically rather than being planned. The largest building was roughly H-shaped with its front entrance centered between two perpendicular wings, both differing slightly in style and probably later additions. Four rows of windows reflected the setting moon. A smaller rectangular building adjoined the right leg of the H, connecting in turn to a long building behind the other two. Whatever the buildings had once been, the dimly lit swastika banner over the front door and sign board near the entrance made it clear what they were now. 

"Sector XIII Logistics and Transport Command" Colonel Hogan said quietly in the doorway of a vacant shop across the street, translating one of several listings on the sign. "It's showtime. You fellows ready?"

"Ready as we'll ever be, gov'nor," Newkirk said. "Got everything right 'ere." A darker shadow among the shadows, he tapped a bag slung at his side.

"Okay, let's do it. Team one, that's Newkirk, Carter, and Gustav, goes in first. Carter, you remember where you're going?"

"Sure do, Colonel. Ground floor, north end, front. Chief Transport Officer's office."

"You got it," Hogan replied. "Ready?"

"Wait, wait, this is not the plan!" another voice said, the accent decidedly German. "We were to stay together."

"We made a change this evening before you joined us, Josef," Hogan explained quietly. "Two teams now. You and Otto are with me. We're going after the central records office, just like we planned. Newkirk is taking Carter and Gustav to the other end of the building. They're going to search the chief Kraut's office and see if he's got anything interesting lying around. We've got too much riding on this mission to risk him having signed the files out for a couple of days or something."

"But that is not the plan," Josef protested. "And we are not supposed to go in until midnight. We are too early."

Suddenly the wail of air raid sirens split the evening stillness. As if controlled by a master switch, every light went dark.

"No, Josef, we're right on time," Hogan said over the sound of the sirens. Even in the dark, his men could picture his brash grin. "Newkirk, move out. My team will be going in three minutes after you."

"Oops, Colonel, I almost forgot to give these to you," Carter said.

"What? Tins of sardines?" Hogan asked with some confusion, feeling the rectangular objects Carter pressed into his hands.

"They're kind of an experiment of mine. If you don't want someone following you, twist the key and throw the can behind you. Try to stay out of the smoke. Oh, and don't toss them anywhere you don't want to catch on fire. And don't do something like fall off a building or get shot while you're carrying them either."

"I'll be careful, Carter. Now get going!" He gave Carter a gentle shove.

As he moved out of the sheltering doorway, Newkirk had an uneasy feeling that he could not quite pin down. What was there to worry about? They had done this sort of thing dozens of times Despite the warmth of the night, he felt a shiver run up his spine. S_omeone just walked over my grave._

---H-H---

Newkirk slipped across the deserted street and hugged the brick wall of the north wing of the building, moving along its outer side. Otto followed, then Carter. With two always covering while the other moved, the three black-clad figures leapfrogged along the wall to a small door. Two of them took up positions on either side of the door with drawn weapons. Newkirk crouched and worked on the lock. Shortly, he gave a thumbs-up signal to the other two and cautiously pushed open the door.

The still, cool air inside smelled of new paint and old mildew. Once his team was inside, Newkirk closed the door and made sure it was locked. The shriek of the air raid sirens was muffled in there, barely louder than the breathing of the men following him. Newkirk led the way down a dark, narrow corridor to a junction with the building's main hallway. The intersection was dimly illuminated by faint light spilling from a stairwell to the upper floors. Skirting the pool of light, they made their way past the stairs into the west wing's main corridor. A half-dozen dim lights spaced along the hallway provided barely enough light for them to avoid walking into each other.

Just before the corridor branched into the main part of the building, Newkirk gave Gustav a hand signal. The Underground man took cover in a doorway, alert for any threat. Another gesture sent Carter checking the names painted on the half-glass office doors with a carefully shielded flashlight. He located the proper one almost immediately and pointed it out to Newkirk. As Carter took up a guard position in the doorway across the hall, Newkirk pulled out his lockpicks and began carefully teasing the lock open.

A quiet hiss – the alert signal from Gustav – broke his concentration. An instant later he heard what hadalarmed Gustav: booted footsteps trudging down the stairs. One man, moving slowly. _Night watchman._ Carter and Gustav tensed for trouble. Newkirk turned his attention back to the lockpicks. _Breathe slow, lad, keep that hand steady._ He felt the last pin slip into place and turned the cylinder. The lock snapped open. Newkirk slipped into the office beyond with the others half a step behind. He closed the door silently and all three flattened themselves against the wall. Minutes felt like hours. The slow footsteps came closer, pausing at each door. Finally the doorknob rattled as the watchman checked it, then the footsteps moved on.

"If that bloke's got the whole building to patrol, 'e won't be back for a while," Newkirk whispered after the sound of the footsteps faded down the hall. "I'll 'ave the office door open in a jiffy. Carter, search the secretary's desk."

Gustav guarded the outer door while Carter, with a red-filtered flashlight shielded by his hand, quickly shuffled through the few papers on the secretary's desk and began opening drawers. Newkirk had the door to the inner office open almost immediately.

"Nothing?" Newkirk whispered. Carter shook his head. _It's never that easy._ "Right. Gustav, you stay on the door. Carter, with me, check the boss's desk. I'll do the safe." The other two nodded and moved to obey.

The inner office was utterly dark. Its solid door blocked even the faint traces of light that filtered from the hall into the outer office. Feeling his way to the windows, Newkirk ran his hands over the heavy blackout curtains to ensure they were securely in place before he turned on his flashlight. Office furniture formed eerie, hulking shapes in the red-filtered light.

"Desk's locked," Carter reported quietly.

"I'll show you a trick, mate," Newkirk said. He ran his hands underneath the desk accessories and retrieved something from beneath the blotter. "Nothin' like a lazy Kraut to make our jobs easier," he said with a grin as he held out the desk key to Carter.

While Carter searched the desk, Newkirk hunted for the safe. _No way would this blighter not 'ave one. His lot don't run down the hall every time they want a secret file._ There was nothing in any of the obvious places. _Where would 'e hide it? Ah, there!_ Newkirk stepped up to a large framed picture of several officers standing with Reichminister Speer and lifted it upward. The red light from his flashlight gleamed on the metal door of a safe._There you are, luv. Now give your secrets to me._ Newkirk peeled off his gloves, cracked his knuckles, and set to work.

Nothing existed in Newkirk's world now but his ears, his fingers, and the lock. He did not hear the distant air raid sirens fall silent or the quiet rustles and thumps of Carter searching the desk; his ears were alert for the tiny sounds of the tumblers. His only senses now were hearing and touch, but those senses were exquisitely tuned. Finally, he felt as much as heard the 'click' he awaited, the sound that brought him back to the ordinary world. _Ah, now that's what makes life worth livin'._ He pulled his gloves back on, swung the safe door open and felt around inside. Papers. Folders. He pulled out the whole stack and took it over to the desk.

With Carter holding a flashlight, Newkirk flipped quickly through the papers from the safe.

"'Ere it is," Newkirk said, holding up a folder in triumph. "Project _Forelle_." He leafed through the contents. "We've hit the jackpot, me lad. Feast your eyes on this lot: factory locations, production schedules, shipping schedules for all four parts. Everything the gov'nor wants and more. Let's get th' pictures and get out of 'ere."

Newkirk turned pages as Carter systematically photographed the contents of the _Forelle_ folder. Then, with a second roll of film, they repeated the process for insurance. Each of them pocketed one of the rolls.

"Tell 'im we're done in 'ere," Newkirk said quietly, stacking the papers to return them to the safe.

Carter nodded and opened the door to the outer office. A sudden sound from the corridor reached Newkirk: booted feet, a lot of them, running toward the office. _Oh bloody 'ell!_ Carter crouched against the wall, weapon in hand. Newkirk dropped behind the desk, waiting for the sound of a key in the door lock. The feet continued on past the office toward the far end of the building; everyone started breathing again. Newkirk's instincts screamed to run, but training and experience were stronger. He could hear his mentor's voice as clearly as if the man were standing in the room: _Never hurry so much ya miss somethin', lad, or the coppers'll give ya more time than y'want t'think about what ya did sloppy._ Systematically, Newkirk locked the safe, wiped off his prints, and swung the concealing picture back in place. _Looks like I was never 'ere._

"That didn't sound good," Carter whispered as Newkirk rejoined them in the outer office. "I mean, there's not supposed to be anyone in the building. So what were those people doing in here?"

"They're on to the gov'nor," Newkirk replied grimly._ How?_

Before anyone could reply they all heard gunshots, muffled by distance but still unmistakable, from the direction of the other team's objective.

"Bloody 'ell," Newkirk said. _What would the gov'nor do now? Besides pull a bloomin' miracle out of 'is sleeve?_ "Gustav, take this film. Get it out of 'ere no matter what. This, too." He thrust the bag of camera gear at the Underground man.

"What are you doing?" Gustav whispered to Newkirk.

"Going t'help Colonel Hogan. We'll meet up at the safehouse."

"Two of my men are with him."

"I haven't forgotten about 'em. Don't you worry none, mate, this is what I do for a living. I'll take care of your lads. You get out of 'ere. Too many lives depend on what's on that ruddy film. If it doesn't get to the Underground, this'll all be a waste. Go!"

There was no time to argue. Newkirk peered into the hallway, found it clear, and slipped out. Carter followed. Newkirk motioned for Carter to go with Gustav. Carter's only reply was a shake of his head. _ Never mind that the Colonel put me in charge, I can't tell Carter to do what I wouldn't do myself._ They gave Gustav cover to the door they'd come in, then turned and moved down the long corridor to the east. Shadows among shadows, the two men sprinted through the dim corridors toward the far end of the building.

---H-H---

The long corridor terminated in a T-intersection. Newkirk read Carter's question in his look: which way? Two gunshots somewhere to their right, followed by a quick series of shots, gave them the answer. _Some bloke giving his mates covering fire._ Newkirk moved cautiously to the right, beckoning Carter to follow.

A dim pool of light at the base of the stairwell illuminated an unmoving black-clad form. A dark stain spread beneath the body. Newkirk's heart sank. Above, on the stairs, they heard the sound of booted feet running upwards. Another shot, a second, then several more from the top. Motioning Carter to cover him, Newkirk slipped forward and looked up.

He was just in time to hear a loud pop and see a sudden bright light at the top of the stairs, followed by an eruption of glowing motes trailing thick white smoke. Several of the glowing spots arced downward onto the stairs, one landing hissing the floor beyond the inert body. Smoke billowed from them. _Bloody 'ell, I guess we're not going that way._ In moments, thick smoke obscured the upper landing and started filling the stairwell. Newkirk tried to keep his breathing shallow as an garlicky odor reached his nose.

He flattened himself against the shadowed wall, not moving, as a German voice somewhere above him barked out orders mixed with a few choice words of profanity. The Gestapo squad emerged from the smoke and ran down to the third floor landing. Slamming the door open, they disappeared into the main corridor. _Trying to get ahead of the gov'nor. At least a dozen of them._ The acrid smoke was starting to filter down to the floor. Newkirk motioned for Carter to move in and check the man on the ground; he stood by, pistol in hand, ready to give anyone targeting Carter a few 9mm reasons to keep hishead down.

"It's Otto," Carter whispered. "He's alive, sort of. He's been shot. He's bleeding pretty bad, and I think he's hurt from falling too."

"Can't patch 'im up 'ere, this place is already crawlin' with Gestapo an' there's probably more coming." _Why so many?_

"No kidding, and, um, this smoke isn't good to breathe for very long. And I think something's on fire upstairs."

"Can you carry 'im?" _This ain't how it's supposed to go. Colonel Hogan oughta be making decisions, not me._

"Yeah." Carter grasped Otto's uninjured arm and leg and hoisted him in a fireman's carry. "This won't be very good for him, but I guess getting shot again would be worse. Or getting ..." Carter's voice trailed off into a gasp for breath. The strain of carrying a man nearly his own weight silenced him for a while.

"That was white phosphorous," Newkirk whispered to Carter in an accusing tone they hurried back to the main part of the building, eyes and ears alert for danger.

"Yeah, wasn't that great? Kapow! All that smoke from one little sardine tin!" One hand holding the unconscious Otto on his shoulders, Carter pantomimed the explosion and smoke trails with the other.

Newkirk halted a moment and stared at the grinning explosives expert staggering along with his burden. "You've really gone round the bend this time! You gave the Colonel bloody white phosphorous in bloody sardine tins, ye daft bugger!"

"Saved his life," Carter grunted, still moving. "And I told him to be careful." He caught his breath. "We've got to find the Colonel and Josef. Which way?"

"We're not gonna catch up to 'em now, mate. Too many goons between us an' them, not t'mention your ruddy exploding sardine tins. We've gotta get out of 'ere before any more Gestapo show up or it's over for all of us." _There's nothing I can do for ya, gov'nor, not if I'm gonna get Carter an' Otto an' the other film out of here._ Trying to ignore the cold knot in his stomach, Newkirk called up his memory of the building floor plan. "Downstairs at the main stairs. There's a receivin' area, and a ramp out the side away from all the chaos." _Just like any other job, get in, get the goods, get out._ Except those jobs didn't involve leaving his commanding officer behind.

They rested for a minute in the shadows of the small loading dock. Slicing up Otto's black jacket, Newkirk improvised a crude pressure bandage for the Underground man's gunshot wound. Carter looked at Newkirk with an unspoken question in his eyes; Newkirk replied with a shake of his head. They could both hear the wounded man gasping for every breath, and now and then a bubble of blood appeared on his lips. _Bleeding into 'is lungs, and not a bloody thing we can do._

"I'll take a turn carrying 'im," Newkirk said, lifting the unconscious man onto his shoulders. "Let's get 'im 'ome." _And let's hope the Colonel's there waiting for us._

---H-H---

They moved out into the darkness. The far wing of the building was surrounded by arriving vehicles, glaring lights, running men, and a lot of shouting. The top floor, where it connected to the other building, was on fire. Nobody saw the two shadows, one heavily burdened, slip off the grounds.

The return to the safehouse was a jumbled nightmare of running through pitch-dark streets, hiding in shadows, dodging patrols, following Carter's lead as the burden of Otto's weight drained away thought, judgment, and volition. Newkirk could feel wet warmth on the back of his neck, soaking his shirt, and knew without looking that it was Otto's blood. _How did everything go so wrong?_ The silence magnified every scurrying rat into an enemy in the darkness. He lost count of the times Carter, scouting ahead, waved him into cover as another patrol passed. He crouched for seeming hours in the shadow of a wall as Carter vanished into the darkness to decoy a particularly persistent patrol away. _Never thought I'd be so happy to hear the barmy lad's firecrackers goin' off._ He knew they travelled no more than half a mile, but it seemed like leagues. Run. Hide. Turn back. Run again.

Somehow they avoided the patrols and made it to the back garden of the safehouse. The basement door opened as they reached it, framing an anxious-looking Gustav. Newkirk's legs buckled under him and Gustav barely caught Otto as Newkirk collapsed on the stone steps.

Gustav carried Otto inside and gently laid him down on the floor as Carter half-carried, half-dragged Newkirk into the basement. Safe behind closed doors, Newkirk let exhaustion overtake him. He sat hunched on the floor, not even bothering to pull off the clothing soaked with Otto's blood. It took a moment for the worst to sink in: Gustav was alone. _I left the Colonel behind._

"Where is Josef?" Gustav asked the two. Before they could answer, a faint moan came from Otto.

«Josef,» Otto whispered.

«Relax, my friend, do not try to talk,» Gustav said, taking Otto's hand in his own. Otto tried to shake his head, then coughed, bringing up blood.

«Josef,» he said again, fainter. «Trap. Gestapo waiting. Josef shot me.»

«An accident?» Gustav asked, his face pale in the dim light.

«Not accident. Trap. Gestapo.» Another coughing fit. «Josef ... Josef knew.»

The coughing ended, and with it Otto's breathing.

"He's gone, mate," Newkirk said quietly. "Nothing anyone could 'uv done."

"Thank you ... thank you for bringing him home." Gustav's eyes glistened with unshed tears. Carter put his hand on Gustav's shoulder in an awkward but heartfelt gesture of comfort.

"What he said about Josef ..." Carter said in a strained voice. "That means that Josef ..."

"Is working for the Gestapo." There was no way Newkirk could say it gently. "And the gov'nor's with 'im."


	3. Black on Black

_Insert usual disclaimers here. Gustav, Josef, and Otto are still mine, and nobody else is.  
_

_As always, my most sincere gratitude goes to GSJessica, my tough but fair beta reader; any remaining flaws are mine alone._

**Later that night:**

* * *

Newkirk paced back and forth in the tiny basement as he tried to think of a plan. _What's got into you, Peter? You think if you're pacing like the gov'nor you'll start thinking like 'im too?_ Talking to himself wasn't helping. He shook his head in disgust. _What a bloody mess._ The mission blown. One man dead. Colonel Hogan missing, probably with a traitor. Gestapo everywhere. Running out of time. _What would the gov'nor do if 'e was 'ere?_ Newkirk paced some more, back and forth, hoping the regular motion of his steps would bring order to the chaotic thoughts flying around in his head. _He wouldn't be walking a groove in the floor. He'd get information, and be where 'e could use it._ Newkirk stopped short, resolution replacing indecision on his face.

"Gustav," Newkirk said quietly. The Underground operative looked up. "Where would Josef try to go? If they were runnin', I mean?"

"His house, I think. It is a place Hogan would believe is safe," Gustav replied after a moment's thought.

"And if Josef has sold out, that's exactly where the Gestapo will be goin' to find 'im. We need to get there first. How far is it from 'ere?"

"Across town, about a kilometer. You must stay off the main streets."

"Twenty minutes. Twice that if we're dodgin' patrols."_ He's covered for a couple days out of camp, but we can't miss rolll call. What if we can't find 'im before we 'ave to start back? What if we find 'im but we've no time to help 'im?_ "Carter, what've you got left in your bag of tricks?"

"Just a couple of firecrackers. I had to use most of them to fool that patrol that kept coming back.I bet I could make more from things Gustav has in the house, though."

"No time for that. You've not got any more of your explodin' sardine tins?"

Carter shook his head. "I only had enough to make two of them and I gave them both to Colonel Hogan. Because he was the one who really had to get out, you know, not us. I mean, I didn't want us to get caught either, but..."

"Carter!" Newkirk managed to get the force of a shout into something barely more than a whisper.

"Sorry." As soon as Carter said it, Newkirk wanted to kick himself. _He's worried for the gov'nor, same as me. I shouldn't be jumpin' on 'im for that. _

"We've got to get over there before the Gestapo finds 'im or 'e's got no chance at all. Gustav, which way?"

"You remember the school we passed on the way to the target?" Gustav waited for Newkirk's nod. "At the street in front of it, the Schulestrasse, instead of going toward the military offices you go right. There is an alley behind those buildings. Go almost all the way to the bridge. Turn right on the second street before the bridge, it is called Talstadtstrasse. Josef's is the fourth house on the left. There is a motorcar repair garage across the street from it. You cannot miss that, it is the only building on the street with a flat roof."

"You going to be okay 'ere, mate?" Newkirk asked.

"Who can know that? But someone must stay here to wait for Papa Bear if he escapes. I must get word to the others that our cell has been compromised. This only I can do. Also, someone must ... take care of Otto."

_A partisan's burial in a secret grave. _"'E was a brave man, Otto was. Sorry we couldn't save 'im."

"It was no fault of yours, my friend. The only ones to blame are Josef and the Gestapo, and their masters. But you must hurry if you are to have a chance to help your colonel."

"I know," Newkirk said. "We'll send word back with Hermann after he drops us off near camp. If you don't 'ear from us, we're captured or dead, and they might've caught us with the film. You 'ave to get your copy to London. Without the gov'nor we can't pull off what we planned, but maybe the RAF can give 'em a bit of a present."

"Good luck, and God bless you both," Gustav said.

Newkirk flexed his shoulders to loosen up his muscles, sore from carrying Otto. His jacket and shirt were stiff with dried blood. _Good thing black hides blood._ As he led the way up the stairs he heard Carter's voice behind him.

"I'm real sorry about your brother, Gustav," Carter said so quietly that Newkirk could barely hear him over the chorus of chirping crickets in the yard.

"Thank you. I did not realize you knew," Gustav replied in a whisper choked with emotion.

Before Newkirk could turn and ask for an explanation, Carter pushed past him up the steps. Newkirk put his questions out of his mind for the moment. Silently, shadows among shadows once again, they moved out.

---H-H---

The air raid had never materialized. The sirens had sounded the "all clear" some time ago, but the town was still almost completely dark and silent save for the starlight and the crickets. _If they're lookin' for us, why is it this easy?_ Newkirk felt an odd sense of relief the first time they had to hide from a patrol searching the empty streets. He realized he was not the only one; Carter, jammed tightly against him in the meager cover behind a couple of dustbins, also relaxed slightly when the patrol passed them by. They stayed frozen there until the patrol turned the corner.

"If they're out looking for people, maybe the Colonel got away. Because they wouldn't be looking if they didn't have anyone to look for, y'know," Carter whispered when the street was clear.

"Right," Newkirk answered. "No more talk, they might 'ave friends."

Newkirk unfolded himself from the hiding spot and followed Carter. His aching muscles reminded him unmercifully of carrying Otto's limp body through these streets. _I'm getting too old for this. But it's Colonel Hogan out there with a traitor. We 'ave to find 'im, or we 'ave to know what's 'appened, even if he's ..._ Newkirk could not bring himself to think the word.

They tried to stay in the darkest shadows. Move. Pause. Move again. Always one at a time. Nose wrinkling at the smell, Newkirk moved beside a rubbish skip and froze. Carter began moving up to join him. Suddenly something fast erupted out of the bin. It launched itself down the alley in a scattering of garbage and ricocheted off of Carter. With an unearthly yowl, the cat vanished into the darkness. Newkirk tried to force his heart back into his chest where it belonged. Carter stood frozen in the alley, white-faced.

"Just a stray moggy," Newkirk whispered. "Come on."

"It was black!" was Carter's whispered reply. "If a black cat crosses your path that's real bad luck. I think maybe we ought to go another way."

"There's no time for that rubbish, you silly git," Newkirk whispered. "Anyway, it was grey."

"You sure? It looked black to me."

"I'm sure. Let's go."

They made it to the intersection with Schulestrasse without further incident. A red glow lit up a column of smoke a dozen blocks away. The fire Carter's incendiary sardine tins had started was still burning. _Hopefully it's keeping 'em busy._ Worried Carter might try to insist on going to look, Newkirk led the way to the back of the school and down the narrow alley.

They hid from patrols twice more, and once were passed by two official cars cruising slowly through the streets. Finally, almost three-quarters of an hour after they had left Gustav's house,they came in sight of Talstadtstrasse. From the sound of vehicles in that direction, it was anything but deserted. Newkirk caught Carter's arm and pointed to a narrow alley.

"'Round the back," Newkirk whispered. "That garage Gustav was talkin' about. Maybe we can get a look-see from there."

They moved cautiously down the alley. Move. Stop. Listen. Newkirk froze at the sound of a car door slamming somewhere on the other side of the row of buildings. Carter, following too close behind, collided with him. They both nearly fell. He gave Carter's shoulder a brief shake, a silent warning to be careful.

They passed the back yards of three houses, then they were at the high board fence behind their goal. Newkirk felt around for the gate. _Has to be one 'ere somewhere._ His fingers touched hinges, found the latch. It was loose. Newkirk moved the gate very slightly, feeling and listening for any sign the hinges were about to squeak. Carefully, he opened the gate barely enough for the two of them to slip through. Once they were inside he closed the gate behind them and looked at the dark, blocky shape of the building against the stars. _If I were the Gestapo, I'd 'ave a man up on that roof._ He tapped Carter's arm, pointed at the roof, mimed a sniper's pose, and touched a finger to his lips. Carter nodded understanding.

Newkirk froze at the rustle of the dried weeds brushing his knees. The narrow strip of ground between the fence and the back wall of the building was overgrown. Worse, it seemed to be used to store old car parts. He felt his way in the dark to avoid kicking over some stack of junk. Slowly, he and Carter moved to the back wall of the building. In its shadow they were almost invisible.

The ground sloped upward away from the river and the building had been partly dug into the slope. Still not low enough. Then, next to the steps leading down to the building's rear door, Newkirk almost bumped into several oil drums standing against the building. Waste oil waiting for pickup, he guessed from the smell lingering around them. He tried gently rocking one and it did not move. Nearly full. The other was the same.

"'Ere's our way up," Newkirk whispered. "Couple of oil barrels. Full, won't tip if we're careful. You get on my shoulders and check that roof first, in case they Krauts 'ave got someone up there."

"Piece of pie."

"That's cake, Carter. Cake," Newkirk muttered under his breath.

First Newkirk, then Carter, climbed up onto the oil drums, moving carefully to avoid a telltale clang. The drums remained steady under their weight. Newkirk leaned into the building. The bricks were rough under his hands as he dug his fingers into the tiny grooves where mortar had come loose. Bracing himself, he whispered "Go!"

Carter scrambled up Newkirk's back and got a grip on the edge of the roof. Newkirk was thankful for Carter's relatively light build. Still, he found himself holding his breath. He got a moment of relief from the boots on his abused shoulders, long enough to breathe, when Carter hoisted himself just a bit higher to see over the edge. Then the weight was back.

"Clear," Carter whispered.

"Up you go, then," Newkirk replied. _I hope 'e doesn't kick me in the noggin on the way up, I've 'ad enough for one night._ He shifted his feet slightly and braced for Carter's push-off.

A heave and a grunt and Carter was on the roof. He vanished from Newkirk's sight as he flattened out to check for threats. Moments later, he reached down and held out his hands to Newkirk. The two clasped each other's wrists and, at a whispered three-count, Newkirk jumped while Carter heaved. Minus a bit of skin and the left knee of his pants, Newkirk struggled onto the roof and landed on Carter's legs.

After disentangling himself from Carter, Newkirk scanned the flat, gravel-covered roof for cover and possible danger. He saw only a pair of vent pipes; they were neither. He motioned Carter forward. Carter crept toward the front of the building on elbows and knees. The faint crunch of the gravel beneath him seemed as loud as a marching army. Newkirk followed close behind, staying alert for any sign they had been seen or heard. The sound of a car door slamming from the still-unseen street in front of the building made them freeze for long moments. _At least the moon's down._

The front of the roof had a high parapet that provided some cover. Carter crouched behind it and cautiously raised his head to look across the garage's parking area and the Talstadtstrasse at what should be Josef's house.

"Uh-oh, boy, that's not good," Carter whispered.

"Bloody 'ell," Newkirk replied as he took in the scene below. "We're way too late to warn 'im."

The front of Josef's house was brightly lit by the headlights of two black official cars parked at an angle on the street. An armed and alert Gestapo guard stood at the top of the few steps leading up to the wide-open front door. His attention seemed to be on the street, not on what was going on in the house behind him. Even from his position fifty feet away, Newkirk could hear things being broken inside the house. A full-scale building search was in progress. As he watched, some large object was flung out of an upstairs window and smashed into the window of the neighboring house only a few feet away. Nobody from that house emerged to investigate.

Newkirk's leg muscles burned. Carrying Otto had been bad enough. All the time in the past few hours crouching in cover finished the job. _I'm definitely getting too old for this._ Intending to drop to one knee, he put a hand on the parapet, then jerked it back. There was something on the edge that shouldn't be there. He looked at what he had touched: a glove. A black leather glove, to be exact, with its mate placed neatly next to it. A pair of gloves, put there by someone who meant to pick them up again.

"Carter," Newkirk whispered and pointed out the gloves.

"They look like really good gloves. Like the Gestapo wears." His voice trailed off. "A sniper. But why would he leave them behind? I mean, they're ..." A shake from Newkirk stopped Carter in mid-whisper.

"Must've been watchin' the house from up 'ere. And 'e's not gonna want to lose 'is gloves."

"You think he knows where he left them?"

"Oh, 'e knows. And 'e'll be back for 'em. I don't fancy us being 'ere when 'e comes lookin' for 'is gloves." _How could this go any more wrong?_

"There's two of us, though. And he doesn't know we're here. We'd take him by surprise."

"If anything 'appens to one of their men, the Gestapo will know there are more of us than what they've seen. They'll figure we might've got what we were after back there. Then it won't matter if we can get those schedules to the Underground 'cause they'll have changed 'em all."

Before Newkirk could say more, another black car pulled up and the driver bounded out to hold the door for a Gestapo officer. The officer strode into the house. The sounds of the search continued. _We've got to get out of 'ere soon._ Newkirk ducked down behind the parapet to check his watch. As he squinted to make out the faint glow from the luminous dots, he had to suppress a yelp of pain when Carter suddenly grabbed his arm hard.

"What the 'ell?" Newkirk hissed.

Wrenching his arm loose from Carter's grip, Newkirk looked back over the parapet in time to see two Gestapo men contemptuously fling a limp body onto the tiny patch of grass between the house and the street. The body, dressed in tight-fitting black clothing, lay with limbs outflung like a squashed spider. From that distance they couldn't see who it was.

But whoever he was, it was clear that he was dead.


	4. Motion in Shadow

_As always, the Hogan's Heroes characters are not mine; insert usual disclaimers here. Gustav, Hauptsturmführer Leyser, various dead bodies, assorted nameless Germans, and the truck with the bad clutch are mine. If you borrow the truck, be sure to fill the tank before you bring it back._

_Once again, abundant thanks to GSJessica, my wise and insightful beta reader._

**Still later that same night:**

* * *

"Is that...?" Carter asked, dread coloring his whisper. He stared transfixed at the scene across the street.

"I can't tell," Newkirk admitted after a few moments. Not the answer either of them wanted.

"We have to get him. We can't just leave his ... him ..."

"Mate, if that's the Colonel, _if_, then you know 'is orders. We shut down the operation and get everyone 'ome safe. It's what 'e wanted."

"And you're going to do that? Just leave him there?" Carter's voice, still a whisper, was fierce.

"We don't even know if that's 'im."

"But if it is, you're really going to leave him behind?"

Newkirk was silent for a moment, still looking through half-closed eyes at the sprawled body lying still and silent where it had been thrown.

"I've never been too good at followin' orders. If I had every stripe I've lost for not doin' what officers tell me, I'd 'ave no room on my ruddy sleeve for 'em all. We'll..."

Carter suddenly stiffened and held up his hand. A second later, Newkirk heard the sound which had alerted Carter. Dried weeds crunched and crackled. Someone was moving alongside their building.The crickets, chirping more slowly as the night grew chill, fell silent as the disturbance reached them.

The rustling continued, louder, followed by a thumping of some awkward object being moved around. It hit the fence, then the building, then the fence again. _Ladder. He's comin' up 'ere._ Newkirk touched Carter's shoulder and pointed toward the source of the sound, then mimed a swift blow. Carter nodded and moved to the side of the roof. Newkirk followed, every tiny scrunch of gravel under his feet as loud as a gunshot. _'E won't be hearing us. Sound on a roof goes up, and 'e's makin' all that racket in the weeds._ Newkirk heard the ladder thump into place against the side of the building.

Carter heard it too. He moved to the left. Newkirk slipped his sap from his back pocket. With no cover available on the roof, he could only crouch and trust to the protection of his black clothing. The ladder grated against the brick wall as it took the climber's weight. He climbed quickly, obviously confident of his safety. _Just keep thinkin' like that, me lad._ Hands appeared on the edge of the parapet. A figure in Gestapo black heaved itself up onto the roof.

Before the man could even register that he was not alone, Newkirk lunged up, grabbed him, and hit him expertly with the sap. At the same instant, Carter seized him by both arms. The Gestapo man went limp. Carter pulled him the rest of the way onto the roof. Newkirk took a moment to check his victim. _Still breathing, good. Better than having the lot of them lookin' for whoever killed 'im._

"I'll get his gloves," Carter whispered.

"Who cares about 'is bloomin' gloves?" Newkirk asked impatiently.

"We want him to think he fell off the ladder, right? But if he remembers getting up on the roof, he'll know he didn't fall coming up. Then he's gonna wonder why he was going down without his gloves when they're what he came up to get. I'd sure wonder about that if I left my gloves somewhere."

Newkirk stared at Carter in surprise. "Blimey, you do 'ave a brain rattlin' around in that noggin of yours. I 'adn't thought o' that. Grab 'em quick, we 'ave to get moving."

Carter was back in moments with the black leather gloves. Getting the gloves onto the unconscious man's hands was not easy, and seemed to take forever. Newkirk was on edge. Every noise sounded like someone coming to look for the Gestapo agent. Finally the gloves were on.

"I'll slide 'im down to you," Newkirk said. Carter scampered down the ladder in the dark with the agility he so often lacked on the ground.

"Ready!" he whispered from below.

Newkirk lifted the unconscious Gestapo agent. Luckily, the man was lightly built. _We're lucky 'e isn't Schultz's size._ Newkirk manhandled him over the parapet and half-lowered, half-dropped him down the steeply slanted ladder. A grunt from below told Newkirk that Carter caught him safely. Newkirk swung over the edge. After a moment's fright when he could not find the top rung with his searching foot, he was on the ladder, then beside Carter on the ground.

They arranged the limp body at the base of the ladder with one foot against the last rung, arms outstretched as if to unsuccessfully break his fall. Newkirk ran his fingertips lightly over the side of the Gestapo agent's head to locate the swollen spot where the sap had struck. Finding it, he rubbed a bit of the dry, dusty soil into the unconscious man's hair there and scratched the skin on that side of his face with some of the tougher weeds. Carter gave Newkirk a questioning look.

"You don't fall an' whack your 'ead like that without gettin' a bit mussed," Newkirk explained. "Let's get going before 'is mates show up."

Shadows in the night once again, Newkirk and Carter cautiously slipped out the back gate. The alley was empty and silent. They moved toward the main street, one watching as the other moved. At the corner, the rumble of an engine approached. They ducked into the shadow of a tall hedge separating the first house from the main street. A covered truck, one of the ubiquitous light military vehicles, passed them. It slowed at the Talstadtstrasse intersection, turned the corner, and stopped. Newkirk looked at their concealing hedge. It ran all the way to the front of the house. Good cover on a moonless night.

"We just might get lucky if that lorry's goin' where we want to go," he whispered to Carter. With a light touch where a gesture would be unseen, he indicated the next intersection.

The two men crept along the hedge and past the house. They crouched, sheltered by their hedge, where they could see the intersection without being seen. Newkirk choked down a cough as a breeze filled his lungs with dieselfumes from the truck idling only a few feet away. The Gestapo had cordoned off the entire block of Talstadtstrasse; one of their men was talking to the truck driver. Newkirk moved forward slightly and listened.

«Yes, your papers are in order. Wait here until Hauptsturmführer Leyser sends for you, then you can pick it up,» Newkirk heard the Gestapo guard say.

«Will he be long?» the driver asked.

«I hope not. The sooner Leyser is finished, the sooner we can all get back to bed.»

«At least you have something to do, not just sitting here waiting to pick up some traitor's body.»

«Yes, I have to stand here checking the papers of the man coming to pick up the traitor's body. You at least have a warm truck to sit in.»

«You are welcome to join me and warm up.»

«If Leyser saw that, he would break me to Unterscharführer. Besides, it is warmer here than it is on the eastern front.»

«True, true. Do you have a light?»

Newkirk and Carter slipped out from their hiding spot. While the driver and the guard chatted, Carter gave Newkirk a boost over the tailgate. Newkirk helped Carter up in turn and pulled the canvas shut again. They crawled forward, feeling their way in the pitch darkness of the truck's interior. A faint sickly odor came from the grimy boards under Newkirk's hands. _I guess it ain't the first time this truck's hauled somethin' that bled._ He touched an obstruction. Shovel. Two shovels. Coil of rope. He guided Carter's hand to the obstacles, warning him. After several minutes of inching his way along, Newkirk felt a solid barrier in front of him. Carter moved close beside him and Newkirk's heartbeat settled back to something like normal. _For once 'e didn't bash into anythin'._ They lay flat along the front of the truck bed, hoping they would look like shadows or cargo if someone happened to shine a light in. The voices outside continued griping about their duty, their officers, and the war.

«The Hauptsturmführer wants you now,» the Gestapo guard finally said. «That is him waving for you.»

«On my way.»

The driver revved the idling motor. With a crunch of abused gears and a hard lurch, the truck began moving. It stopped a hundred yards down the street. Newkirk heard car doors slamming and motors starting. _The ones they 'ad out front must be leavin'._ The driver climbed out of the truck, leaving the motor running.

«You will take ... that ... back to Gestapo headquarters. You know where it is, yes? One of my men will meet you there,» said a voice that must be Leyser. «You, help him.»

«Yes, sir,» a different voice replied from the general direction of the house.

Latches clanked and the tailgate of the truck dropped with a loud clang. Unseen hands folded back one flap of the canvas. Newkirk and Carter closed their eyes to better masquerade as cargo. With no further words from outside, the two could only wait until a meaty thump told them the body had been heaved into the truck. Newkirk forced himself to remain motionless. The tailgate crashed shut. The truck, after further torture of its abused gearbox, started moving again. Newkirk remembered to breathe.

As the truck bumped and jolted down the street, Carter and Newkirk cautiously crawled toward the body lying in the back. Newkirk's gut clenched in dread and his throat tightened. He had to know. _What if it's 'im?_ He steeled himself for the worst. Carter pulled a slim penlight from his pocket. Shielding it with his hand, he turned the dim beam on the face of the corpse. Newkirk forced himself to look into the dead face.

Josef.

Some of the tightness went out of Newkirk's chest. In the dim reflected light, he could see Carter's expression of undisguised relief. _They've 'ad patrols all over town huntin' someone, so the gov'nor must be alive._ No time to think about that. No time for anything but doing what they had to do and getting out of here. Newkirk rifled through Josef's pockets. Keys, a few coins, a pocket knife ... paper. _What's 'e doin' with that on a mission?_ Newkirk unfolded the paper and held it under Carter's light.

It had only a few words, in German: «Hold him here. -- Ley»

Ley? Leyser? Something else Newkirk had no time to think about. He put the paper back into Josef's pocket. Carter, staring at the bullet holes in Josef's bloodsoaked black turtleneck, had gone pale. Newkirk quickly finished his search and motioned to the back of the truck. Carter nodded. The light went out. The two crept silently to the tailgate. Newkirk peeked between the flaps; the street behind them was deserted. The truck slowed for a corner. Newkirk tapped Carter's shoulder.

"Now," Newkirk whispered, barely audible over the sound of the truck's motor. He went out the back, dropping and rolling. Carter followed. They darted to the safety of a shop's deep doorway. They were only a few blocks away from where they had started the mission a few hours before.

"Let's go find our ride 'ome." Newkirk said quietly. Without a word, Carter followed him into the shadows.

---H-H---

A pair of shadows trudged along the edge of a narrow dirt lane.

"If I'd wanted to do all this marchin', I'd 'ave joined the bleedin' infantry, not the RAF," one shadow grumbled.

"Come on, Newkirk, we're almost there. I'm sure it's just around this bend," the other replied.

"That's what you said about the last bend. An' the one before that. The only thing that's 'round the bend 'ere is you, Carter."

"No, no, really, look! There's the sign."

"Ebner's Dairy - milk and cheese" Newkirk translated. "I hope 'e's still waitin' for us. It's a long walk back to camp if 'e ain't."

They kept to the shadows as they made their way around the perimeter of the facility, avoiding the white-painted buildings which would silhouette them like bugs on a windowpane.On the far side of the buildings they spotted the dairy's truck. Newkirk checked his watch. _Oughta be a rake by the right front wheel. Ah, there it is._ That was the hourly safety code. As of fifteen minutes ago, at least, this contact was safe. Carter picked up the rake and looked at Newkirk for direction.

"Against the fence," Newkirk whispered as he moved to the open back of the truck.

Carter leaned the rake against the fence that bordered a tidy vegetable garden between the cottage and the dairy buildings. Carter, visibly shivering, joined Newkirk in the back of the truck. Careful to avoid clanging any of the milk cans together, they settled into the space that had been left for them. It was tight and awkward, but well concealed. A few minutes later, they heard someone climb into the front and start the motor. The truck moved out as if the driver neither knew nor cared that he had passengers.

Newkirk sat hunched over between two milk cans with his arms wrapped around his knees. _What do I tell Kinch? And LeBeau? How do I tell them that I left the gov'nor behind an' I don't even know what 'appened to 'im?_ If he had the space, Newkirk would have paced. Folded up in a truck full of empty milk cans, he could only let his thoughts march around inside his head, circling endlessly but giving him no answers. _I 'ad to get Carter an' the film out of there. That's what Colonel Hogan ordered. Those patrols must 'ave been lookin' for 'im. I left 'im behind._

Beside him, Carter shifted around to find a more comfortable position between his milk cans. He only succeeded in elbowing Newkirk. Jarred out of his thoughts, Newkirk cuffed Carter lightly on the shoulder. Carter kept on squirming, then suddenly stopped.

"Hey! I found something," he whispered. Newkirk heard a crackle of paper. Carter touched his arm, found his hand, and pressed a firm, paper-wrapped object into it.

"A sandwich?" Newkirk asked.

"There's two. One for each of us. Like somebody expected us to be here."

"Of course 'e was expectin' us. That's why the signal was out, and why 'e took the truck out when we gave 'im our signal by you movin' the rake. Now be quiet an' eat."

Newkirk unwrapped his own sandwich and ate. For a while his thoughts were occupied by homemade bread, thick slices of cheese, and fresh butter. All too soon, however, the sandwich was finished, its paper wrapper carefully stowed in a pocket, and Newkirk's thoughts returned inexorably to their previous course. _I left the gov'nor behind._

---H-H---

At the end of an hour in the cramped hiding place in the milk truck, Newkirk was unsure whether he would ever be able to move again. His muscles ached from the long walk carrying Otto and the longer hike across town. He was starting to feel the night's collection of bruises. Between his racing thoughts and the nerve-wracking halts at checkpoints, he had no hope of sleep. He went over every detail of the mission, second-guessing his every action, every decision. Nothing led to any answers.

The truck finally bumped and rattled to a stop. Three raps, then one, on the side told the two men that this was the relay point. Newkirk clenched his jaw to hold in a yelp of pain as he unfolded from between the milk cans. His legs moved like sacks of clay. His shoulders felt permanently hunched, and when he tried to straighten them, they exploded in waves of fire. It was small consolation that Carter was also moving stiffly.

It was still pitch dark, but a deep bass woof made their destination clear. A small white truck was parked at right angles to the milk truck. The woof belonged to Bruno, the biggest of the Stalag 13 guard dogs. The truck belonged to Oskar Schnitzer, the local veterinarian. Like the milk truck, which left on its rounds before dawn, Schnitzer had the freedom to be out in the wee hours of the morning. Sick farm animals observed no curfew.

Shielded from sight of the farm buildings by Schnitzer's truck, Newkirk and Carter managed to get their stiff, aching legs under them. Carter was the first into the back of the dog truck. Newkirk followed, too tired to make more than a token effort to discourage Bruno from trying to give him a thorough tongue washing. He bumped into Carter, who was fending off a second dog. In the dark, it was impossible to see which one. A few minutes later, both dogs settled down as the truck started and pulled out onto the rutted farm lane. Carter was already stretched out full length, his head pillowed on a dog. _'Ere we are runnin' from the Krauts an' in a truck full of killer dogs, and 'e's sleepin' like a baby in 'is mum's arms. _Newkirk shook his head and stretched out his aching legs.

The next thing he knew, Carter was shaking him awake, Bruno was licking his face, and Herr Schnitzer was urging both men out of the truck. Newkirk's legs were stiffer than ever. Somehow, he got them working. The first hints of false dawn were touching the eastern sky, and through the trees to the north he could see the lights of Stalag 13.

Home.

_How can I tell them I don't know what 'appened to Colonel Hogan?_

* * *

**Author's note:**_Some readers might question the authenticity of Carter's penlight. I wasn't sure myself, so of course I researched it. As it turns out, even if the story was set in World War _One_, Carter could have had his penlight. They've been around a lot longer than I ever imagined. The Germans made some fine ones, incidentally, so Carter no doubt "liberated" his somewhere. Battery life back then was terrible, but that little penlight is exactly what Carter would carry to check fuses and connections. _


	5. The Day Between Nights

_I hope this chapter lives up to everyone's expectations, and thank all of you for your patience. As always, Guildsister (formerly GSJessica), my most excellent beta reader, deserves my most profound thanks, not only for her usual professional job of beta reading, but for suggesting a paragraph that got me un-writer's-blocked, as does the love of my life for support, encouragement, and the chapter title.  
_

_Insert the usual ineffective disclaimer here. No challenge to any trademarks or other ownership rights is intended.  
_

* * *

Kinchloe shifted his weight from foot to foot. The slight movement was the only sign of the tension making him uneasy him as he stood in formation for morning roll call. The familiar sound of Schultz counting the men passed unnoticed. Kinchloe's new worries occupied his thoughts. Newkirk and Carter had made it back, barely in time, but the Colonel's empty place in the formation nagged at his thoughts like a missing tooth. _Two people dead, another in hiding, and Colonel Hogan missing._ The cover story they had arranged for Hogan would not hold up for long if he wasn't back soon.

Then a new worry rose to torment Kinchloe. Frowning, he jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting as he kept his gaze firmly on the ground. Colonel Klink kept looking at him. From the corner of his eye, Kinchloe saw him do it again. Why? Why did Klink keep staring at him? Or was it Colonel Hogan's empty place the Kommandant was looking at? No, Kinchloe realized with a sudden, unexpected burst of worry. He, not the empty spot where Colonel Hogan always stood, was the target of Klink's attention. Did the Kommandant know something? _Is he going to ask questions I don't have answers to?_ Schultz completed his report. Instead of dismissing the men, the Kommandant strode directly toward Kinchloe.

"Sergeant Kinchloe," Klink ordered briskly, "I need to see you in my office immediately."

Kinchloe's guts turned to ice. He glanced toward Schultz for any clues to what was going on but the portly guard was looking the other way, talking intently with LeBeau. The only word that reached Kinchloe's ears was "strudel". That was normal, at least. He suppressed his uneasiness and followed Klink. One of the guards, not a 'tame' one, fell in behind him. Just routine, he told himself. Only Colonel Hogan was ever allowed to be alone with the Kommandant. Across the compound, up the steps, across the porch, Kinchloe barely noticed where he was going. _What does the Kommandant know? What does he want?_

Hilda smiled at Kinchloe as he passed her desk in the outer office, and he relaxed a bit. Such a small thing yet, so reassuring. He straightened up a bit more, smiled in return at Hilda, and stepped into the Kommandant's office. The guard followed.

Klink was behind his desk, already shuffling through papers. Kinchloe snapped to attention and saluted.

"Sergeant Kinchloe reporting as ordered, sir."

Klink returned the salute perfunctorily. He looked from Kinchloe to the chair in front of the desk, then back to Kinchloe. _He can't even decide whether to offer me a chair_, Kinchloe noted. _Something is on his mind, and it's too soon for it to be Colonel Hogan. Unless he has heard something we haven't._ The dithering officer finally made up his mind.

"At ease, Sergeant." Klink waited a moment while Kinchloe shifted his stance. "Sergeant Kinchloe, with Colonel Hogan gone, you are the prisoners' designated representative, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," Kinchloe replied. _And I have never known how the Colonel pulled that off. Convincing the Germans that Carter was Hitler had to be easier than convincing the Americans a Negro should represent them._

"Starting on the 15th of October, a week from tomorrow, General Burkhalter is holding a three-day conference of POW camp kommandants. Because of my spotless record of absolutely no escapes, and my unrivaled efficiency, that conference is being held here at Stalag 13. The General wants the other kommandants to be able to learn from my experience. Of course, they can't expect to do as well as I have. Prisoners leave their camps like little birds, they just fly away." _If you only knew, Kommandant._ Klink poured himself a glass of schnapps and sipped it. "This is quite a feather in my cap, if I do say so myself. Colonel Wegner was going to host it, but after I pointed out to the General that the mere convenience of a central location was nothing in comparison to my record, he agreed to move it here."

Behind Kinchloe's impassive face, racing thoughts replaced the last traces of nervousness. Colonel Hogan was due back on the 10th. There would need to be contingency plans in place in case he returned late. _Or not at all._ How could the conference be turned to their benefit? Could they get any useful intelligence from the officers due to attend? Would security be strict or lax in the other camps while their seconds-in-command were in charge? What could be transported, and where, as the visiting kommandants returned to their own camps? As he began mentally laying out the possibilities, forming patterns as crisp and clear as a circuit diagram, Kinchloe spared only minimal attention for what Klink was saying. Spruce up the camp. Repair. Paint. Clean. And no monkey business. He nodded his head as the Kommandant spoke, mechanically noting any specific details and ignoring the rest. His mind still on his planning, Kinchloe suddenly realized that Klink had stopped speaking and was waiting for a response.

"Sir, with all that work, the men are going to be at less than their best. It would help if we had hot showers every day instead of just on Fridays until the conference."

"Every two days. Dismissed!"

Blinking in surprise at this abrupt dismissal and his small victory, Kinchloe saluted and marched out of the office, followed by his attentive guard.

---H-H---

Kinchloe shut the door of Barracks 2 against the chill autumn breeze, ducked under a clothesline strung with damp socks, and sat down at the table. Newkirk and Carter sat down on the other side. Carter was looking at him with his usual trust, never questioning that Kinchloe would find a solution to all their problems; perhaps Kinchloe was imagining a haunted look in the young sergeant's eyes that had not been there a day before. Newkirk, too, seemed to have a trace of that same shadow. _Is it what they saw?_ Kinchloe wondered. What they did? Or what they didn't do? An uneasy silence settled until LeBeau, who had been putting away the coffeepot that served as the receiver for the bug in the Kommandant's office, joined the other three.

"I assume you all heard the Kommandant," Kinchloe stated rather than asked. Nods came from around the table in confirmation. "So, we've got a week from today to get this camp ready for General Burkhalter's conference -- to get _everything_ ready. Carter, Newkirk, pass the word to the barracks leaders. Have them assign details to police up the compound. Make sure they look busy -- and get in the guards' way as much as possible. Notify them about the hot showers, too. Have each barracks leader work up a list of materials for maintenance and repairs: paint, tarpaper, whatever they need."

"I'd guess you're meaning to add in a few extras, like?" Newkirk asked with a bit of a smirk.

"That we will, Newkirk. LeBeau, he's probably going to want you to cook; inventory your supplies. I'm hoping the Kommandant will be so busy trying to get promoted..." Kinchloe raised an eyebrow to quiet the snickering, "...that he won't go over our requests too closely. Check our files on the other kommandants and their camps. There are going to be a lot of them here, which might give us a few opportunities to move things around."

"Are they all gonna be staying here in the camp?" Carter asked. Kinchloe shook his head.

"No, there's not nearly enough room even if Klink slept in here." That produced a few smiles as they all imagined the tall, aristocratic German officer folding himself into one of their hard, cramped bunks. "The Kommandant didn't have any reason to tell me, of course, but they'll have to be staying in Hammelburg at the Hauserhof and coming out here during the day. I expect Klink will commandeer our recreation hall for the actual meeting. I'll make sure we'll have the best seats in the house."

"What about..." Carter started, and his voice trailed off.

"What about the gov'nor, Kinch?" Newkirk finished for him.

"He's out there, somewhere. If he'd been caught, Hochstetter would be all over us. At least Klink would know about it, and he'd be bemoaning the ruin of his perfect record. So the Colonel's alive, and he's out there somewhere. Either he'll come in tonight, or he'll get word to us." Kinchloe left the rest unsaid: Unless he doesn't.

---H-H---

Kinchloe spent the rest of the day organizing, delegating, and planning. The things that came so effortlessly to Hogan needed Kinchloe's entire attention and then some. Taking his shift on radio watch, the last two hours before evening roll call, came as a welcome break. The chances of any messages for the operation were low, and he could spend the time relaxing at the radio and recovering from the strain of the day. He settled into the familiar chair with a feeling of immense relief. This was his place, here with his radios, where the information their lives and their operation depended on crackled in his headphones. The sooner Colonel Hogan was back in charge, the better.

His respite lasted almost until roll call. Then his relaxation was interrupted by an incoming message. It was an all-stations broadcast. Gustav's code. _Gustav should be in hiding_, Kinchloe thought while he copied down the code groups with practiced ease. _Why would he break radio silence?_ As soon as Gustav signed off, Kinchloe leafed through the codebook for Gustav's code key. A few minutes later he had the plaintext in front of him. A chill ran up his spine.

Relayed message follows. Papa Bear turned. London orders kill on sight.

There was no mistaking the words: Papa Bear. Kill on sight. A kill order, and the target was Colonel Hogan.

Then Kinchloe's eyes narrowed as he read it again. Every word was spelled correctly. Too correctly. He worked the equation with the date and Gustav's magic number. The result was 41. The forty-first letter in the message should be incorrect, an apparent keying error, a single Morse dot swapped for a dash. There was no error. Gustav had not sent that message.

There was only one way that message would have been sent without authentication: the codebook was in the hands of the Gestapo. He hoped, for Hogan's sake as well as Gustav's, that they had not taken Gustav as well.

The rattle of the entrance bunk and his name shouted down from the barracks broke Kinchloe out of his thoughts. Time for roll call. He hastily scrawled "Notify Underground!" across the bogus kill order and tacked it up over the radio. After lights-out, he would spread the word across the clandestine radio net that Gustav's codes were compromised.

---H-H---

"What's eating you, Kinch?" Carter asked as they lined up.

"Ssssh, here comes Schultz. We all need to talk after roll call."

"After roll call," it turned out, was a long time in coming. Colonel Klink was energized by his selection to host the conference, and eager to talk. And talk. And talk.

"As you know, I consider it my duty to bring you news of the war that you are no longer a part of. Your air forces have sustained heavy losses in your futile -- futile, let me remind you -- attempts at bombing the cities of Germany. Our brave pilots shoot down your foolish bombers by the hundreds. I am sure there will be many new prisoners coming to Stalag 13 soon. Your generals are so foolish, to throw their airplanes away like that."

Klink continued on in that vein for the better part of fifteen minutes. Kinchloe wished he could just tune it out, but there was always the chance that Klink would let something slip that London needed to know. Klink's claim that the Schweinfurt ball bearing works was undamaged by the disastrous bombing raid in August was worth making a mental note of.

"Our submarines have been equipped with new torpedoes, and they are sinking ships in your convoys like little wooden boats in a boy's bathtub. Yes, yes, the British are going to be very hungry soon." There was an "oof!" nearby like someone had just elbowed Newkirk. "According to Radio Berlin, one of your convoys lost nine ships _and_ 12 of its escorts just two weeks ago."

And on, and on. Three Allied subs were sunk trying to attack the Tirpitz in Norway. German paratroopers had captured the island of Kos, wherever that was; even Klink seemed unclear on that. On, and on, and on.

"Hey, Kommandant, what's happening in Italy?" Newkirk called out. Klink turned toward the Barracks 2 group, his face red.

"Who said that?" he snapped.

"I did, Kommandant. Be a dear, tell us what's going on in Italy?"

"Italy ... Italy is none of your business," Klink said, thrown off his stride. "Never mind about Italy. All that should matter to you is Stalag 13." He tried to pick up where he left off, then gave up. "Oh, diiiiis-missed!"

Back inside the barracks at last, LeBeau poked some life into the stove. Kinchloe poured himself a mug of lukewarm coffee.

"Just before roll call, I got a radio message. There was no authentication code -- it was _funkspiel_. The Krauts trying to mess with us. Two really bad things about it, though: One, it was an order to kill Papa Bear." Kinchloe waited until the muttering died down. "The other is that it was in Gustav's code." It was a few moments before anyone replied.

Newkirk was the first of the group speak. "Gustav's code? Then they've got 'im?"

"It might not be that bad. They might just have his codebook, thanks to Josef. They know the underground will pass the word about that mission, and about the betrayal. The kill order is obviously a shot in the dark to try to confuse things before everyone knows the codes are invalid."

"But doesn't that mean that the Colonel is still okay? I mean, they wouldn't be telling people to kill him if they'd caught him, you know, so he must still be out there somewhere and they haven't caught him or anything yet."

"That's a good point, Carter. I should have thought of that."

"Well, you're busy with planning for all of us and everything, so there's going to be stuff you don't think of."

"Yes, Carter. So, if Colonel Hogan isn't here, and the Krauts don't have him, the big question is where is he? What do we do if he doesn't come in tonight?"

"We have to give _le Colonel_ more time to get back," LeBeau said.

"Yeah. The problem is, our fake Nazi research office won't hold up if they start looking at it very hard. Even the name Ober-Chef der Papier Düpieren is a bit shaky. And if the OCPD doesn't bring him back on schedule, someone is going to be looking at them very, very hard. Someone like Hochstetter."

"Well, what if we make it so he gets sent off somewhere else? Like some other lot takes 'im from the OCPD and says they'll drop 'im by the camp later?"

"That's about what I'm thinking. We can give them a paper trail to chase for a few days, at least. That will buy him time. And if he doesn't come back..." Kinchloe was reluctant to say what they were all thinking. "And if he doesn't come back, at least Colonel Klink won't get blamed for an escape."

"We should guard the tunnel entrance, in case he comes back and needs help. Or in case someone comes in who is not him," LeBeau said.

"Good thought. If they have Gustav's codes, there's always a risk they may have something more. LeBeau, you've got the first two hours, since it was your idea. Then Carter, Newkirk, and me." Kinchloe waited a moment for nods of acknowledgment. "I need to get downstairs and pass the word along about that fake kill order. The rest of you, start thinking of what we can do for that paper trail.

Kinchloe followed LeBeau down the ladder. The trapdoor disguised as a bunk had barely closed before it flew up again, and Kinchloe's voice called the others downstairs. They gathered around the radio table, looking where Kinchloe pointed. The transcribed message with "Notify Underground!" written across it was lying there, a small tear at the top edge showing where the tack had held it to the wall.

"I found it like that," Kinchloe said.

"But papers don't tear themselves loose from thumbtacks," Carter said. "I mean, they can fall off and stuff, but they don't tear when that happens...."

"Yeah," Kinchloe said, nodding. "Not by themselves."

* * *

_A/N: The code authentication technique I described here is not historically accurate; at least, I haven't come across such a technique in my reading. I also haven't come across any description of how they actually did it, aside from mention of deliberate errors, so I suppose my version is as good as any. Don't treat it as genuine, though. I try to keep all the details true to history, but in this particular case, I had to make up something._


End file.
